Guardian Spirit
by Ryuuza Kochou
Summary: Slight AU from Pilot episode canon. What if Dean hadn't come to take Sam hunting that first time? But he was there after. Without question. Sam needed his guardian. One Shot


Disclaimer: Supernatural belongs to Eric Kripke and various other studios and networks. Not this author.

Warnings: Adult and emotional themes, angst

Authors Notes: Just a thought that occurred to me lying in bed one morning. What if Dean hadn't been there when the demon came for Jessica? But we all know he would be there after. A little angst, and a little brotherly love.

Please read and review.

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Guardian Spirit – by Ryuuza Kochou

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Sam was surrounded by ghosts. He stood in a barren field of statues, surrounded by them. Maybe this is where statues lived, maybe he'd come to join them. On his skin there was a granite hardness, in his eyes a cement dryness, his heart there was _a tombstone, sticking out of the ground, like teeth, like jagged teeth, like he was in the mouth of a creature, like he was being swallowed _nothing at all.

There were ghosts on every side of him. They cried, they droned, that spoke of strangers, _you didn't know her, you have no right, how dare you_ the green of the grass was plastic fake, the sun was as cold as ice, the yellow of the flowers was neon, no life had pumped through their stems. There was no scent in the world, no sensation. Only the burns on his hands - the stinging, searing, blistered redness, bandaged and ugly - were real.

All the time, surrounded by insubstantial ghosts, there was one ghost staring at his back, on Sam, like he was somehow real. Sam didn't turn around.

They were at her parent's house. Sam had only been there once, but it was so white picket, so middle class Americana that it was almost unreal; a gingerbread house, a magical castle, suited for princesses of any description. Sam sat on the couch. He was sure he'd spoken to her parents, to her friends _I'm sorry, I'm so sorry_ but he couldn't remember how or when or even why. Memory was a bit like that these days. It may have something to do with the throbbing lump on his skull; _the beam had fallen, the beam, the fire, oh God the fire_ life was a series of photographs now, distant, doctored, unreal, with no space in between. Except the pain. The pain was real. The pain was _a cavity cut with a dull blade, filled with poison, leaving him open and exposed like a corpse in an autopsy_ something he could steer by. A road. A road to hell.

There was warmth at his side. It was the first he'd felt in days. For a split second, smell and sound returned. Leather, gunpowder, cheap aftershave, car wax, old coffee…_home_. Funny, he thought as he looked around him to a crowd of weeping black clad mourners _ghosts_, but he knew had huge gaps in his memory. He must have spoken to the police, he must have called her family, he must have seen a doctor, he must have gotten a suit from somewhere _burned, burned, everything had burned, everything_ but he didn't remember anything like that. Despite this he knew he hadn't eaten, he knew he hadn't slept. A lot of his memory was staring at the crack in the porch steps, as he sat in the charred out doorframe with the stink of smoke for company.

The warmth did not comment.

He watched with detachment as her brother – Mike? Mick? – came up, a big hulking brute who was shaking and crying like a six year old _you're not crying, why aren't you crying_ his fist an expression of anger and grief more profound than any eulogy.

It didn't connect. The warmth left his side.

"_Step back_."

The words, they descended like the wrath of God. They scythed down everything they hit. Sam woke up again, and everything was lines – the sharp, clean lines of walls and floors, the chaotic lines of souvenirs, frames, photos, statues, the slinky wavelengths of her favourite song playing on the sound system, the river curves her mother's tears, the coils of smoke from her father's cigarette, the tailored lines of expensive black suits, the jagged crisscross of mourning veils…too many thick, black lines, too much noise, the stench was sickening, the smell of smoke and cold food and that song _the song she played, she sang in the shower_ cutting through the air like a knife.

Sam stood. He had to get out of here.

He had suddenly appeared back in the mouth of the stone monster _the graveyard, the graveyard_ and was staring at the jagged, sharp tooth that was in his heart. It was night time. The light had gone away.

Something weird was happening to the world. Sounds and sensations and smells were trickling back in, Sam's mind started to work properly again. Until now, the childhood ingraining had been operating _don't show anything, not until you're in a safe place. They attack weakness. Don't show it, or you'll die_…

He was safe now. He knew. Safety had been draped around him, and smelled of leather. It was body warm, and heavy, and familiar.

Sam looked at her grave. The tangle inside had loosened enough to allow the world back in _my fault, my fault, my fault_…

JESSICA LEE MOORE, b. 1984, d…

D. Died. Dead.

_Deaddeaddeadnonono_

Sam tilted his head back and screamed, and screamed, and screamed…

"Sammy," the arms were around him now, huddled over him on the ground, like he was under fire, like death was raining down. "It's okay, Sammy. It's okay. I'm here, it's okay."

Sam wheezed a laugh without breath, hysterical. It was true. When Dean was here, it was okay _he was safety, he was home_ Sam curled up into his brother's chest, whimpering like a small animal. He still smelled of smoke, his hair was greasy, his suit was barely on but the jacket, the jacket across his shoulders, that was real. Now that he felt its warmth, he registered the cold – he was so cold be was shaking.

Dean pulled him back against another grave. If CHARLES ROY (b. 1912 d. 1979) didn't understand, then he wasn't the loved father and husband that his stone claimed, and Dean would have no time for him. Sam was tucked in, safe, bundled like a baby, like the baby Dean had pulled from the fire so many years ago.

Dean stroked his hair. He rubbed his back. He crooned. Winchester men don't do this sort of thing, but Dean would change even the most fundamental truth for his baby brother. "I got ya, Sam. I'm…sorry." A scowl. "I should have been here."

Trust Dean. Sam was the one who left the circle of protection, but this was _Dean's_ fault in Dean's mind. Sam loved him so much. Dean was real – you couldn't get much more solid than Dean. Dean was a rock in a world of silence and chaos. Leather, gunpowder, cheap aftershave, car wax, old coffee. _Home._

"I'm glad you're here," Sam whispered against the warm shirt. It was the first shirt that didn't smell of smoke. "I…Where's Dad?" Sam knew his father would be a steel wall that he could lean on, punch, kick, and always, always be forgiven. In many ways, John was an enlightened man.

"I don't know, Sammy. I tried to find him. I don't know where he is." A soupcon of worry there. Something wasn't right with that.

"I…I have to go with you now, Dean," Sam mumbled. "I have to find him. I have to…we've got work to do, I have to…" He was babbling. He could have said nothing. Dean would still get it.

Sam risked a look at his brother. Dean was watching Sam, worried and sharp and soft and angry – angry at whatever had hurt Sam, angry enough to murder, angry enough to take out a city. This wasn't Dean the hunter or Dean the one night stander or Dean the partier Dean the smart ass. This was pure Dean. Dean on the inside; that amazing warrior he never showed to anyone. Dean the guardian. Sam's guardian.

"Tell me about her, Sammy," Dean whispered into his ear.

Sam started to cry. "She was kind. And sweet. Wholesome. Not your type," Sam gave a watery smile. "I was worried you'd come along, I didn't want you to steal my girl."

Dean smirked, and it was a signpost back into familiar lands.

"She baked like a pro. She sang in the shower. She wanted to be a nurse, and she was so good at it, Dean, so good at it." Great, heavy sobs welled up in his chest. But at least he would remember. He wouldn't just be full of blank spaces. "She…she liked the Smurfs…"

"I like them too," Dean held him tighter. So he knew he was safe. That was his job. Sam looked out for others, and Dean looked out for him. He'd been wrong. There was always someone in his heart.

A guardian spirit.

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The End


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